ed himself to some more fish, and continued with animation--

"Now I can carry out my idea! I may or may not set about it the right
way, but I do want to make you all happy Frank."

It was perhaps well for his continued equanimity that during the first
part of this speech Frank was lost in contemplation of a singularly
vivid image of Ellen Berstoun. She had a distracting habit of appearing
like that to the young soldier, of which he was unable to cure her. He
started out of his reverie with the last words.

"My dear father, you're the best sportsman I know," he replied warmly.

Mr. Walkingshaw looked highly gratified at this compliment.

"That's what I'm aiming at," he answered.

He leaned over the table and continued confidentially--

"Of course you are happy, Frank. There's really nothing Providence could
do for you except put a little money in your pocket, and give you a good
time--eh?"

"Oh--er--nothing."

"What's the matter? That doesn't sound very cheerful."

"I assure you I'm as cheerful as--er--er--anything," said Frank
heroically.

"I was sure of it. But poor Jean--she's got her troubles, eh, Frank?"

Frank warmed up at his sister's name.

"She has," he admitted.

Mr. Walkingshaw thoughtfully piled several slices of bacon on his plate.
It would have reassured Colonel Munro greatly to have seen him.

"I wish I was sure that Vernon was good enough for her."

Frank looked up quickly.

"I don't think anybody is quite good enough for Jean; but Lucas Vernon
is really a deuced fine fellow."

Mr. Walkingshaw still seemed doubtful.

"A bit lazy, I'm afraid."

"I assure you he's not," said Frank. "He works, sir, like the very
dickens."

"He can't sell his pictures," replied his father. "I'll never believe in
an artist till he can sell what he paints."

"The difficulty for a painter is to get hold of the right man--the
fellow with the money," urged Frank.

"That's a mere matter of time," said his father; "they are sure to meet
sooner or later, and then the point is, has he painted anything worth
selling? If Vernon can manage to prove that, I may begin to believe in
him. If he's a fraud it is time the thing was stopped for Jean's sake."

He looked much more like the old Heriot Walkingshaw than he had for some
weeks. Then he smiled, though still with an exceedingly shrewd air.

"Well," he concluded, "we'll see."

CHAPTER IV

There is a by-street which opens out of the King's Road, C